with an "expert." Hang the expert! Falloden,
who was to deal with the business, promised himself not to be
intimidated by him, or his like; and amid his general distress and
depression, his natural pugnacity took pleasure in the thought of
wrestling with the pair.

When he rode up to the Flood gateway everything appeared as usual. The
great lawns in front of the house were as immaculately kept as ever, and
along the shrubberies which bordered the park there were gardeners still
at work pegging down a broad edge of crimson rambler roses, which seemed
to hold the sunset. Falloden observed them. "Who's paying for them?" he
thought. At the front door two footmen received him; the stately head
butler stood with a detached air in the background.

"Sir Arthur's put off dinner half an hour, sir. He's in the library."

Douglas went in search of his father. He found him smoking and reading a
novel, apparently half asleep.

"You're very late, Duggy. Never mind. We've put off dinner."

"I found Sprague had a great deal to say."

Sprague was the subagent living on the further edge of the estate.
Douglas had spent the day with him, going into the recent valuation of
an important group of farms.

"I dare say," said Sir Arthur, lying back in his armchair. "I'm afraid I
don't want to hear it."

Douglas sat down opposite his father. He was dusty and tired, and there
were deep pits tinder his eyes.

"It will make a difference of a good many thousands to us, father, if
that valuation is correct," he said shortly.

"Will it? I can't help it. I can't go into it. I can't keep the facts
and figures in my head, Duggy. I've done too much of them this last ten
years. My brain gives up. But you've got a splendid head,
Duggy--wonderful for your age. I leave it to you, my son. Do the
best you can."

Douglas looked at his father a moment in silence. Sir Arthur was sitting
near the window, and had just turned on an electric light beside him.
Douglas was struck by something strange in his father's attitude and
look--a curious irresponsibility and remoteness. The deep depression of
their earlier weeks together had apparently disappeared. This mood of
easy acquiescence--almost levity--was becoming permanent. Yet Douglas
could not help noticing afresh the physical change in a once splendid
man--how shrunken his father was, and how grey. And he was only
fifty-two. But the pace at which he had lived for years, first in the
attempt to double hi